


Settling

by cagestark



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blowjobs, Everybody lives in the tower! Yay!, Heels help, M/M, Peter is short, Tony had a crush on David Bowie, We all did
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 11:53:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19991743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cagestark/pseuds/cagestark
Summary: Peter really wants to be taller than Tony. Heels help.





	Settling

“Everybody scoot together. Come on now, act like you like each other. Please remember the rules, absolutely no bunny ears, no crude gestures, and no gang symbols are to be _thrown_. Am I using that right? Peter? _Thrown_? Okay—something isn’t right here.”

There is collective groaning as the original six Avengers—minus Dr. Banner who is on sabbatical halfway around the world, plus Bucky who can be trusted to go anywhere Captain Rogers goes, _plus_ , well, _Peter_ —let go of the breaths they’ve been holding and the smiles they’ve plastered on. At this point, Peter’s lips are wobbling from the strain of holding a pleasant expression. Captain Rogers, in one of his more sentimental moments, had insisted they take more photographs to document their time together before Peter went away to college, but no one had anticipated how difficult it might be.

“Who let the centennial man the camera?” whispers Mr. Stark into his ear. Warm breath fans across the younger man’s neck and Peter shivers, covering the reaction with a huff.

Never one to enjoy a laugh at someone else’s expense, Peter’s conscious demanded he stick up for Captain Rogers—though, the man _had_ already accidentally taken the picture twice. “Come on Mr. Stark, he’s doing the best he can.”

“That’s what frightens me _most_.”

“Everybody, focus on me please! This would be a lot less painful if everyone could stand still for longer than it takes to blink. Now—wait—Peter I said shortest Avengers in the middle. No wonder we’re lopsided. Switch places with Tony to stand by Natasha, please?”

“With all due respect, I’m not the shortest, Captain,” Peter says helpfully. Because he _isn’t_. “That’s Mr. Stark.”

“Only one way to solve this,” Clint says, who has already used two previous opportunities to try to avoid taking the photograph altogether. He sprints away, leaping over a loveseat and disappearing down the hall. For a man who could be so stealthy, the sound his boots made on the floor was thunderous.

“Hate to break it to you, kid, but I’m taller,” says Mr. Stark. The older man draws himself up to his full height, and standing as close as they are (nearly chest to chest!), a tiny part of Peter wants to melt into a puddle. Except he’s been working on trying to appear more adult to Mr. Stark, which includes not wearing his character pajamas around the Tower anytime he spends the night, not creating edible volcanos out of his mashed potatoes and gravy at communal dinner times (even if Clint does it), _and_ being one entire inch taller than Tony Stark.

So instead of melting, Peter pushes his own chest out until they look like two alpha birds posturing for dominance.

In the background, Natasha mutters: “This is like watching two penguins decide which will stand on the egg for the next month—“

“Miss Romanov, everyone knows that it’s the male Emperor Penguin who stands on the egg—“

“So you’re calling yourself the female penguin in this National Geographic love story scenario?” Mr. Stark asks, grinning. He breaks away and leans against the counter of the marble island. His face is warm, crow’s feet and laugh lines blooming in his mirth, and Peter’s stomach suddenly feels so full of butterflies that he can’t even open his mouth for the fear that they’ll all come fluttering out.

“If anything,” Bucky mutters to Captain Rogers behind them. “Peter’s the _egg_.”

Clint bursts back into the room. In his hand is a tape measurer, a metal, industrial looking thing more likely to be found on a construction site than in Stark Tower. “Alright gentlemen. Stand up straight, shoes off. We’ll settle this here and now.”

Peter nudges off his shoes, laughing. Mr. Stark does the same with his expensive dress shoes. Beneath the polished leather, he is wearing posh, brightly colored socks—Calvin Klein. Nice. _Cute_. God, even Mr. Stark’s feet are cute. Peter is so, so fucked.

They measure the older man first, the group crowding around, debating on whether the fluff of hair should be discounted.

“Tony—sixty-nine inches. _Nice_.”

Mr. Stark wiggles his eyebrows behind his tinted glasses. Peter’s face burns at the implication and all eyes turn to him while Clint runs the tape measurer from his heels up his spine to the crown of his head. Everyone holds their breath. Or maybe that’s just him. “Peter—sixty- _eight_.”

“ _What_?” Peter cries. Mr. Stark bows, blow kisses while a few other Avengers applaud as if he’s done something extraordinary in that two-and-a-half-centimeters alone. Peter could have sworn he was taller, even just infinitesimally. He frowns, nudging his feet back into his sneakers and not bothering to tie the laces. So what if he’s pouting? The way Mr. Stark ruffles his hair, like Peter is a whole foot shorter and only ten years old, is downright counterproductive to his image!

“Now that that’s settled,” Captain Rogers says. “Can we get everyone in their spots please? Their proper spots.”

Begrudgingly, Peter switches with Mr. Stark to stand beside Natasha, who squeezes his shoulder, conciliatory.

“It’s okay, kid,” Mr. Stark says in his ear again, voice a warm vibration. “You’ve still got years of growing left, no doubt. All I have left to look forward to is growing in reverse. That’s shrinking, by the way.”

“Yeah, thanks Mr. Stark,” mutters Peter.

Captain Rogers calls their attention from behind the camera. “Okay, it’s all set. 8 seconds people! Say cheese—“ before dashing off to his spot at the end of the line.

Everyone makes last moment adjustments as the camera’s automated feature counts down. Peter shoves his hands into his pockets, tries to look happy. And then Mr. Stark’s hand comes up to press against Peter’s lower back as everyone shifts closer together. His breath stutters, feeling the warmth through his clothes, in the flush of his cheeks, and in several other even more embarrassing places.

“Cheese,” Peter breathes.

-

“You look like a lobster.”

Peter rips the photo out of Ned’s hands, face burning nearly as badly as it was in the photograph. One glance down proves that Ned—while not tactful—is certainly not wrong. Peter looks like he’s suffering from a terrible sunburn. It’s a direct contrast to how Mr. Stark looks next to him, regal, suit immaculate, glasses tinted to hide the squinting of his smiling eyes. He presses the picture in between pages of a textbook on his desk and slams it shut, willing it out of existence.

But not _totally_ out of existence. Because God Mr. Stark looked so good.

“Besides Natasha, I’m the shortest Avenger,” Peter says, slumping into his desk chair. He picks up a sleek, metal ballpoint pen to click anxiously. “How dorky is that?”

“You’re taller than I am,” Ned offers.

“Not taller than me,” MJ mutters, tapping away on her phone.

“I wouldn’t care about any of it except—I don’t know. I always thought I was taller than Mr. Stark.”

“Your height is _cute_ , Peter,” says MJ, as if this is the most banal concern he’s ever expressed. “It’s endearing. You’re like a damsel in distress, so tiny and helpless—“

Peter takes the metal pen between his hands and bends it in half, tossing the pieces at her. _“Damsel in distress?”_

MJ brushes the pen to the floor, unimpressed. “Stark can do that too.”

“Not with his bare hands!” Ned chimes in. Peter beams at him. Ned is always in his corner—and together, they almost have enough neurons to keep up with MJ’s scathing repertoire. _Almost_.

Still: “This—none of this is the point, though,” says Peter. “I just need a quick way to grow three inches. Overnight preferably.”

“There are some sketchy surgeries I’ve heard of,” Ned suggests. Peter winces. Thanks, but no thanks.

“Just wear lifts, Peter. Stark does it all the time, how else do you think he comes close to being taller than Pepper Potts?”

Peter frowns. “Lifts?”

“Or heels.”

“Like—shoes for women?”

MJ finally looks up from her phone. Her expression is both disappointed yet unsurprised—bland but scathing, her curls a wild mane around her sharp features. “Shoes are for _feet_. You have feet. Not to mention, heels are a big turn-on for most men. And the confidence they can give? Wild. You’re missing out.”

“Heels are a turn on when _Pepper Potts_ wears them. Besides, I doubt manufacturer’s even make them in my size—”

“Yeah, because your size nine feet are unheard of,” snarks MJ. She kicks off her stylish flats and nudges them across the room. “Try those. We’re the same size.”

Peter slips his feet into them and—okay. Not bad. They feel like they’re liable to fall off any moment but there are no laces to press into the top of his feet all day until they’re aching. And he has very nice ankles. He’s always thought so.

But what would Mr. Stark think? This whole gap year between graduating high school and going away to MIT was supposed to be spent finally making a definitive move on the man he’s been pining after since he was old enough to pine. So far, his progress has been lackluster. And by lackluster, he means non-existent. What was it that MJ said heels gave her? Confidence?

He could use some of that.

“What’s the verdict, Pete?” Ned asks.

Peter clears his throat. “MJ. Do you, by any chance, own any heels?”

-

“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” Peter mutters with every step. “Jesus, Mary, Joseph—”

“They aren’t that bad,” MJ says. She’s smirking, and definitely is angling her phone too far towards Peter for it to be innocuous. If she’s filming or taking pictures, so help him God— “I’m actually a little jealous right now. Who knew your legs were so long, Parker.”

The heels are modest by the standards of MJ’s collection: two-and-a-half-inches, black. There’s a strap that goes around his ankle though it’s hidden by the hem of his skinny jeans, but it’s digging into the bone a little too much to be comfortable. The arches of his feet already ache, and he’s using muscles in his calves and shins that he didn’t even use when slinging webs thirty stories above the city. Not to mention, the heels themselves were so, so _pointy_.

“Cosmo said that wedges are easier to walk in, we should have picked some of those,” Peter mutters. They’re in Peter’s makeshift bedroom at Stark Tower. He doesn’t use it often, even though he’d certainly like to make use of the bed more than he does now—or Mr. Stark’s bed, if he’s being completely forthright.

“Wedges aren’t as sexy. You look hot,” MJ says. She slaps his ass, laughing when he yelps. “Please make sure you take a mental picture of the look on Stark’s face, okay? He’s going to flip his shit.”

“You think?” Ned asks from where he’s lounging on the bed.

“Yeah—do you really think so?” Peter’s fingers toy with the hem of his shirt, turning this way and that way in the lengthy mirror to see himself from every angle.

“Have I ever been wrong? Go get him, Parker.” She hauls Ned up off the bed. “Text us the details!”

-

By the time Peter makes it down to the lab, his stomach is in knots. He pauses just outside the elevator to breathe, wondering if he’s going to be sick. The only solace is knowing that Mr. Stark—Tony, for this, for _now_ , let him be Tony—is alone in his lab. Most of the other Avengers don’t even have the clearance to come down to this level.

“Come on, Parker,” he mutters to himself, shifting in the heels. They’re pinching his toes, a little. “You’re Spider-man! _Spider-man_! You’ve fought actual real-life villains. This is cake. Absolutely cake. Okay. Okay. Let’s go—back upstairs—”

“Peter.” FRIDAY’s voice overhead nearly sends him stumbling to the ground.

“Yes?” He croaks.

“Boss is wondering if you’re going to come in or spend the rest of the evening in the hallway.”

Peter clears his throat. “Let him—tell him I’m coming.”

The lab still takes his breath away—the gleaming glass, the glowing holograms, the glistening metal. This is where magic happens. Tony is in the center of it, sitting on the floor, surrounded by papers, floating diagrams, and two different cups of coffee at various volumes. The older man is no longer in the suit he was wearing this morning for the picture. Instead, he’s wearing a rumpled t-shirt—who the hell the Raconteurs are, Peter has no idea—and blue jeans that fit tight around his thighs. His hair is mussed, and Peter has spent more than one fantasy wondering how it would feel under his fingers.

“Hey, kid,” Tony mutters around a pencil in his mouth. He reaches out to flick at one glowing hologram and it spins away. “What can I do for you?”

“Just came to—uh—see if you had plans—for dinner.”

Peter didn’t think he would make it this far. His palms are sweating, even as he wipes them on his jeans. What the fuck is he doing here? _Wearing a pair of high heels_? He’s a fool, the biggest, most naïve idiot. After this, he’ll never be able to show his face to Tony or the other Avengers again, he’ll probably have to flee the country, maybe change his name—

“I do _now_. How’s pizza sound? I just need to finish up some work here and then we can order in. I’m feeling like a homebody tonight.”

Peter’s heart soars. Suddenly he’s flying—forget fleeing the country, he’s going to move into Stark Tower permanently, probably never leave the older man’s side unless it’s to patrol or see his friends and aunt, hopefully become a permanent fixture in Tony’s bed and heart—“I’m pretty sure when you’re rich Mr. Stark, they just call homebodies recluses.”

Tony laughs. “Better than a hermit. Come help me up, kid, my knees are killing me.”

He only makes it one step. He stumbles—his enhanced sense try to save him, but he’s not used to the added height or obstacle of walking on his toes like this. He overcompensates, and then he is biting the dust, sprawled on his ass, tailbone aching as fiercely as his feet.

“Peter—” suddenly the older man’s knees are fine, downright impressive considering the speed with which is rises and crosses the room. Standing over Peter, he casts an impressive shadow, warm eyes washing over him from his hair all the way down to—Tony’s eyes widen. They literally _widen_ , and Peter feels like if he were any less skilled with his poker face, he might have gasped like one of those ladies in the Victorian days, always swooning from scandals. He recovers quickly, reaching down to help him up.

Peter doesn’t need help though—now that he’s taken a spill, it’s like his body has acclimated. He bounces up with surprising grace, wincing at the throbbing in his ass even as it fades.

“Are you okay?” Tony asks carefully.

They are face to face, close enough that he can smell the older man’s body wash—and Peter has to look down, just ever so slightly, to look Tony in the eyes. Tony has an incredible set of eyes—the color of mahogany, framed with perfect dark lashes. They have the same effect on Peter as a knee to the gut might, stealing his breath. Jesus, this much eye contact can’t be healthy. It’s making him hard even, and Peter doesn’t know whether that is a feat or a failure. His throat is dry, so he swallows. “I’m fine. Great! So. Pizza?”

“Kid.”

“Personally, I’m feeling pepperoni.”

“Pete.”

“It’s an American classic.”

“Peter.” Tony clears his throat. He waves a hand towards Peter’s legs. “What’s this?”

“What’s what?”

“That—is not proper footgear to be in a lab—”

Supporting most of the smaller man’s weight, though Peter is _fine Mr. Stark, really!_ Tony helps him cross the room and settles him onto a rolling chair. Peter’s embarrassment wars with his total dejection; it figures that his last hope at impressing Tony or coming across as anything other than a barely-post-pubescent teenager was a bust. Literally. Tears fill his eyes but he blinks them away.

“Peter—are you alright? Did you hurt yourself?”

“Just my pride,” Peter mutters.

Tony snorts softly. He stalks away to stand with a hip cocked against one of the metal tables. There, he takes his time and leisurely looks Peter over again, eyes catching and failing to pull away from the delicate heels on Peter’s feet. He licks his lips, and even as Peter’s breath catches, he explains it away. Chapped lips. Duh. The air down in the lab is very dry—

“So, what’s the deal, kid? Did you lose a bet?”

That just makes it so, _so_ much worse. Peter crosses his legs, trying to shrink in on himself. Tony’s eyes track the movement, center on the flash of the delicate clasp around his ankle. Sniffing wetly, he picks at a loose thread on the side seam of his jeans and smiles weakly. “More like, I got some poor advice.”

“They look— _good_.”

Tony’s voice—the tone, like he’s trying to say something without saying it—makes Peter look up. If he was worried at all what he looked like, he needn’t be: Tony is staring at his shoes, head tilted like it’s an equation he’s trying to solve, or like he’s a patron at an art gallery looking at a particularly interesting Magritte painting.

“They do?” He asks. Peter isn’t above fishing for compliments, especially from this man, this incredible idol who could probably make Peter’s heart sing (and his dick harden) with half a glance and a kind word. “They don’t look—stupid? On me.”

“I was alive in the 70’s and 80’s kid. Heels were a thing. Hell, Bowie did it—I had the biggest crush on him when I was young.”

Peter perks up. Everyone knows that Tony doesn’t care about gender in his partners, but it’s rare for him to bring it up so casually in conversation like this. Every piece of information he learns about Tony is so fucking endearing, his heart aches in his chest. Quickly, he does the math in his head. “Really? A crush on Bowie? But—well. He was so much. You know. _Older_.”

Tony turns away. He bends to retrieve the pencil he dropped after Peter’s fall. “Yeah. Well I was seven. Age was just a number.”

“ _Is_ just a number.”

Tony hums, scribbling something down before tucking the pencil behind his ear. “It’s—the perspective is a bit different from the other side of thirty, kid. Take my word for it.”

“I’m eighteen,” Peter mutters. “Quit calling me kid.”

“What should I call you? Short stuff?”

This isn’t working, Peter thinks. Nothing will work, because this whole endeavor is just a fool’s errand. Nothing will ever change.

Peter can’t help it—he bursts into tears. Tony doesn’t notice right away, because Peter is a pretty silent crier, elbows planted on his knees, face in his palms, shoulders shaking. The silence must go on too long, because then Tony is crouched in front of him on his haunches, warm fingers wrapping around his wrist to carefully pull them from his face.

“Hey—hey, hey. What’s wrong, Pete? What hurts?”

“This—!” Peter says, tilting his head to wipe his damp cheeks on his shoulder. “You—not taking me seriously!”

“I take you seriously—I take you very seriously.”

“You don’t. You’re always calling me kid, like, like I’m still that little boy from the Stark Expo! And then, you’re _one_ single inch taller which doesn’t matter _at all_ in the scheme of things but I know you, I _know_ you’re just going to use it as another excuse to keep from seeing me for the adult I am, and—”

“Is that what this is about,” Tony asks, wrapping a hand around Peter’s ankle. A thumb drifts under the cuff of his jeans to run along the strap of the heels. It hurts because it feels so good, makes him shiver with longing that he knows won’t ever be quenched. “You want to be _taller than me?_ ”

“I want to make out with you,” Peter snarks. “But at this point, yeah, whatever, I guess I’ll settle for being taller—”

“Peter.” Tony is soft and stern when he takes Peter’s chin in his hand. He shifts up onto his knees so that they are closer to the same height, those warm brown eyes drifted from Peter’s own down to his lips and then up again. All Peter’s breath seems to be caught in his lungs, he can’t move, can’t even blink for fear of missing a single moment as Tony leans forward slowly, giving the younger man ample time to turn away.

But Peter doesn’t—because he’s not dumb. Because this is everything he’s wanted for so long that he almost feels like it’s a dream.

Their mouths are open at the first press, heads slanting to slot together like they’ve been doing this for ages. His tongue can’t help but reach out, eager to taste the older man, and the first slide of Tony’s tongue against his own is. God. It’s orgasmic. It’s overwhelming. The rough press of facial hair, the firm grip of Tony’s hand as it slides around to cup the back of his head and bring them closer, Peter’s knees shifting open to create more space for their bodies to come together. He tastes like coffee, black. Tony tilts his head just a little more, coaxes his jaw to open wider so that he can lick into Peter’s mouth, and it’s wet, so sensual, Peter goes from soft to hard so quickly that it hurts, head dizzy.

“God,” Peter breathes into Tony’s mouth. Tony laughs softly but Peter barely gives him the chance, pressing his eager mouth forward, licking Tony’s teeth and sucking the man’s full bottom lip into his mouth until he’s the one groaning and sighing.

Tony pulls away, smiling when an upset, undignified noise comes out of the back of Peter’s throat. One of Tony’s hands—fuck, why are his hands always so hot, like there’s a fire burning right underneath the skin?—drift down and he runs his thumb along the obvious erection in Peter’s jeans until he whines. “You want to be taller, Pete? Well here you are. What next?”

“Didn’t think I’d get this far,” Peter gasps. His hips twitch upwards, desperate for pressure on his aching cock. Tony’s hand comes away instead, moving upwards to thumb at the button on Peter’s jeans.

“I have an idea,” the older man says lowly. He thumbs at the button of Peter’s jeans. “Can I, Pete?” He asks lowly, his knuckles slipping underneath the younger man’s shirt to brush against abs that jump at the contact. “You can say no. I wouldn’t be upset.”

“Have you even been listening?” Peter pants. “Yes, _yes_. _Please_ Mr. Stark—“

Tony groans at the moniker. His fingers are nimble and practiced as he undoes Peter’s jeans, sliding them down his hips when he shifts up to make room. “We’ve got to break you of that habit. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Peter breathes. He’s so hard it hurts, cock straining obscenely at the front of his boxers, fabric dark and damp with precum. Under the older man’s gaze, he feels like he could combust, burst into flames.

“I’d undress you properly, but I’d really like to keep these on,” Tony says, eyes half lidded as he runs his palm down Peter’s calf to the heels, thumb stroking the exposed top of his foot.

“Whatever you want, just, please—it _hurts_ —“

“ _What_ hurts?” Tony sounds mildly alarmed, pulling back.

Peter’s face burns. He palms at his cock. “My—you know—I’m—“

Understanding comes over Tony’s face, concern draining away. “Don’t worry, Pete. I’ll make it better.” And then he is leaning down, nuzzling Peter’s hand aside and putting his mouth over Peter’s clothed cock. Even through the cotton of his boxers, it is the most intense thing he’s ever experienced: the heat, burning him inside out, the pressure, the flash of whiskey eyes that won’t leave his own, always making sure Peter is interested in this, okay with this.

“God, Mr. Stark, _yes_. Fuck, _fuck_ , that’s so good—so— _oh_ —wait—“

Tony pulls back immediately, but it’s too late: Peter is cumming, balls drawn up tight against the heat of his body and throbbing, cock twitching as he spurts into his boxers. “ _Noooo_ ,” Peter whispers, reaching down to jerk himself off so as to not ruin the orgasm. It’s still the hardest he’s ever cum, Tony watching on, looking pained himself with one hand between his legs and gripping his own cock. The rasp of flesh on denim is just loud enough to be heard.

“Why’d you stop me?” Tony asks.

Peter is gulping for air. At times like this, he wishes he knew sign language. “I didn’t want—not so soon but then—too late and—“

Tony smiles. “It’s okay Pete. I don’t care how long you last. I wanted you to feel good.”

“It felt _so good_ Mr. Stark—“

Tony groans, laughing a little at the face Peter makes when he pulls his sticky boxers away from his half-hard cock. He shuffles on his knees to grab a cloth from inside a nearby cabinet and watches while Peter cleans himself off, still palming himself. He winks. “I’m glad. Never stop stroking my ego, kid.”

The motion of the older man’s hand between his own legs catches Peter’s eye and he swallows, mouth dry, thinking of doing the same thing Tony did just a moment ago, pressing his mouth to Tony’s clothes cock, feeling it jerk under the denim— “Can I—help you, now? Please?”

Tony’s mirth disappears. He stands, joints creaking, and turns away to adjust himself in his jeans. “I didn’t do that for reciprocation, Peter.”

“You did it because you wanted to?”

“Exactly.”

“Cool. Now _I_ want to.” When he stands (after his legs have stopped shaking), he feels six feet tall. His legs feel endless. At the dark look in Tony’s eyes, he feels elegant, powerful, desirable. Tony lets him back him up against the table, box him in with his arms. This man is so powerful: a superhero, smart enough and strong enough to do anything he sets his mind to. And he’s shivering between Peter’s legs, smiling contentedly like he already has come. Peter isn’t hard again yet, but he can’t remember ever feeling this turned on, this sexual.

Carefully, Peter drops down to his knees. He crosses his ankles behind himself demurely and looks up through his lashes to watch Tony’s throat bob as he swallows. “Can I, Mr. Stark?”

Tony groans, head rolling like his neck isn’t strong enough to support it. He cards his fingers through Peter’s hair. “If you want to. I’m yours.”

Peter hums. Tony’s words feed a dark part of himself that he didn’t know was ever hungry. He feels drunk undoing the older man’s belt, drunk with lust and power. It’s as if he’s possessed by some sultry spirit who despite Peter being a virgin has no qualms leaning forward to mouth at Tony’s clothed erection.

The sharp inhale above him and the subtle tightening of fingers in his hair just sends him higher. _Deeper_. Tony’s scent is strong here, musky but clean.

“I’ve never done this before,” Peter says lowly, brushing his lips against the hard cock as he speaks.

Tony’s breaths are downright shaky as he laughs. “As long as you don’t bite me, there’s no way you could go wrong. I feel ready to blow my load as it is, fair warning.”

“Not yet,” says Peter, all wide eyes and shiny lips. “I want to play with it first.”

He carefully tugs down Tony’s boxers to take in the sight of his cock. It is flushed dark with arousal, twitching happily under Peter’s gaze. Instinct has him wrapping his fingers around the base where there is a nest of dark curls. Then he laps with the flat of his tongue at the head where there is a glistening wetness. He’s only ever tasted himself before, but Tony is remarkably similar. He takes the head into his mouth to suckle, tonguing at the frenulum to coax out more precum.

“Look at you,” Tony says quietly. They’re words that might usually inspire insecurity, but Peter is too far gone. He’s let the anxious part of himself relax to a safe place in the back of his mind. Here, he knows now, he is safe. There is no embarrassment, just his own arousal and the arousal he’s fanning in the man above him. Tony’s hand leaves Peter’s curls to cup underneath his jaw. When his thumb brushes against the rim of Peter’s lips wrapped around his cockhead, the young man opens his mouth to let the thumb in too, running his tongue over each in turn even as the cock jumps. “On your knees, but you still feel taller than me, Pete. Such a good boy—such an amazing man. Already a better man than I’ll ever be. _Jesus_ , baby, just like that—whatever you want to give me.”

Peter opens his mouth wider. Tony’s thumb slips free even as his cock slips deeper. Peter can’t help it—his eyes slip closed. The skin feels like velvet on his tongue as he laps at it, being careful to keep his teeth away. One hand comes up to cradle Tony’s balls and he feels more than hears the groan it draws from the older man’s chest. He establishes a rhythm, sucking as best as he can around his own whimpers, pulling back sometimes to lap at the head. When the cock approaches the back of his throat, he swallows on instinct and Tony’s hands slip free from his hair to scrabble at the metal counter behind his hips, knuckles white. The whole time, Tony keeps up the litany of filthy praise, and if both his hands weren’t busy, Peter would absolutely be palming his own cock which has returned with a vengeance.

“Almost there, Pete,” Tony warns softly. “You can pull back if you want to.”

He _doesn’t_ want to—thanks for asking. He closes his lips around the cock head while running one hand over the shaft, slick with his spit. The precum increases, the balls in his palm grow tight and Tony tosses his head back as he comes, the noises leaving his mouth making Peter throb and whine even as he works to swallow the hot load of cum that floods his mouth.

When he pulls away, there is the briefest moment of insecurity. But it is smothered between them as Tony gathers him in his arms, tilting his head upwards just slightly to press their mouths together. Surely he must be able to taste himself, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“You’re incredible,” Tony murmurs into Peter’s neck, placing a sweet kiss there. When he pulls back, his eyes are decidedly misty and more vulnerable than the younger man can ever recall seeing them. “All this effort—Peter. I don’t know if I’m worth this.”

“Let me decide,” Peter says. He lifts his chin just barely to place a kiss on Tony’s forehead. “And from now on—if anyone asks—”

Tony snorts softly. “You’re taller?”

“You read my mind.”

“On one condition.”

“Anything.”

“Keep the heels.”


End file.
